by yon bonnie banks
by the insane have strength
Summary: "She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her... I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her..." ― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince. Oliver/OC. 1983. K.


"She cast her fragrance and her radiance over me. I ought never to have run away from her... I ought to have guessed all the affection that lay behind her poor little stratagems. Flowers are so inconsistent! But I was too young to know how to love her..."  
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, _The Little Prince_

* * *

July, 1983

* * *

Oliver's biggest regret in life was that his broom wouldn't rise higher than four feet off of the ground.

He had been trying to convince his father for ages to charm it so that he could fly higher, even if only by a few feet, because how else was he supposed to train to be good enough for a spot on Puddlemere United's team? Timothy Blacker had been playing Quidditch since he was barely old enough to walk, and he was ― in Oliver's opinion ― the best Keeper in history. Blacker probably had no problem persuading his parents to charm his toy broom, in fact, he probably had a professional-grade broom given to him for his first birthday! How was Oliver supposed to compete with that? He was seven already and he wasn't even allowed to touch his step-mum's broom. Besides, he was too short to reach it, even if he had been allowed to play with it. At this rate, he wouldn't be good enough to be on the Chudley Cannons' reserve team until he was in his forties, and then he would be too old to play anyway. His parents were just out to kill any good career chances that their darling little boy had. He was doomed.

With a frown, Oliver flattened himself forward against his broom and willed his broom to go faster. It sped up slightly, which was still not fast enough for Oliver to even consider playing Quidditch professionally. He let out a string of colourful words ― whispered, of course ― that he had heard his uncle Sean mutter once, under his breath. After that, Uncle Sean had received a scolding from Granny McCarthy ― his stepmother's mother ― and a slap on the arm from his wife.

It felt good to think unholy words, especially since Oliver was having a rule-breaking kind of day. He was supposed to be actively participating in the second day of the annual Family Reunion, where the millions of members of the McCarthy family, the Wood family and extended family ― it was really only about sixty people, but that still felt like a number with lots of zeroes on the end of it to Oliver ― came together with their deluxe tents at Oliver's large house by Loch Lomond. Oliver couldn't help but feel slightly overwhelmed at the number of people, and had escaped off with his toy broom to ride around the vast scape of property.

The reason that his family owned so much land was that it had been in the family for many, many years. The land had been in possession since the 1800s when the McCarthys were famous for breeding fancy and racing Hippogriffs and needed lots of space to do so. When Oliver's great-grandfather McCarthy passed away, he left the land to his one and only child: Oliver's grandfather, who passed it on to Oliver's mother ― well technically his stepmother, but she was Oliver's only mother figure.

He veered towards the loch, paying careful attention to his posture on the broom and the position of his grip on the handle. He felt the air rush around him, ruffling his movement-tousled mahogany hair, and relished the feeling. Never had he felt so free as when he was up in the air, flying like a phoenix. Oliver did a few calculations and went over a few technicalities in his brain before finally attempting a barrel roll on his broom.

Adrenaline zoomed through him; his veins were on fire and his mind clouded over with excitement. He righted himself after the successful manoeuvre, practically hearing a Quidditch stadium filled with his fans cheer him on.

They were roaring his name, shouting encouragements as the opposing team's Chaser flew towards him, Quaffle in gloved hands. The Chaser grinned, one muscular arm releasing the reddish ball in a well-aimed throw. The crowd fell silent as the Quaffle soared towards Oliver. The entire world slowed down to half-speed as Oliver narrowed his eyes, zeroed in on the ball, and triumphantly swung his arm, hitting the Quaffle well out of the way of the goal hoops he was diligently guarding. The stadium turned back on again as cheers thundered through the atmosphere. 'OL-I-VER! OL-I-VER! OL-I-VER!' They were chanting. They loved him. He was the best Keeper in history.

Unfortunately, none of the fans had thought to mention to Oliver that he was about to fly into a tree.

He was brought back sharply to reality as the first, small branch scratched across his face, and immediately braked his broom. His heart pounded with the effects from the near brush with death ― a hyperbole, of course ― and he touched back to the ground, gasping for air desperately. He sat on the ground, one hand holding his broom and the other over his heart, feeling the thu-thump, thu-thump of nervous blood coursing through his veins.

"Are you alright?" A shy, unfamiliar voice inquired gently. Oliver looked up. A young girl stood in front of him, staring down at him with bright amber-green eyes. Her hair was long and unruly, the colour of dark chocolate, and blew around her with the effects of the breeze. Her modestly cut dress was also tousled by the weather, and was the same hue as freshly-fallen snow. Oliver couldn't help but notice that she had a crown of heather, clover, and thistle-flowers around her head, as well as bracelets and anklets of the same flora. He blushed and nodded, embarrassed at encountering somebody that he had never met or that his parents had never introduced him to. Oliver wasn't the most social of children, that was for sure, which was part of the reason that he had went out of his way to escape the large masses of Woods and McCarthys and whoever else decided to show up for the five-day-long event.

She smiled down at him, holding out one slightly suntanned hand to aid him in standing up. He took her extended hand and blushed an even deeper shade of magenta as she helped him up. He was more than eager to drop her hand after he no longer required its assistance. "You're a very good flier." She stated softly, her eyes trained on his, his own flitting anywhere but at her.

"Thanks." He mumbled, looking at her for a brief second and holding her gaze for a fraction of a moment before returning his focus on the soft ground beneath his feet. Oliver had never realized how fascinating the earth was, but now it was like he couldn't tear his eyes off it. He was desperate not to look away from the ground as he tried to will the heat on his face away. Maybe, if he didn't reply long enough, the girl would go away and he could go back to flying.

"Loch Lomond is a sad place, isn't it?" The girl had another question, one that Oliver couldn't tell if he was supposed to answer or not. He settled for a shrug, and finally allowed himself to look up at the loch. It didn't look sad to Oliver; it just looked like a loch. Lochs couldn't feel or anything like that, because they were just water.

This girl was weird.

Oliver briefly wondered if she was a witch. She had to be; there were too many enchantments on the McCarthy property that repelled Muggles. She couldn't even have found her way over here. Unless the enchantments didn't stretch all the way down to the water. But it was still McCarthy land, wasn't it? Yes, yes it was.

Oliver's new acquaintance was trespassing, then, wasn't she? Wasn't that illegal?

"There's a song about it," The girl stated plainly, and Oliver blinked, having forgotten what she was talking about. She giggled, probably at the confused look on Oliver's face, and walked towards the loch, her bare feet ― what kind of girl was this ― slipping into the water. She was humming, quietly, and Oliver wondered whether he should take this moment to escape. He recognized the tune as an old Scottish traditional one that Granda McCarthy often belted out in his strong Scottish brogue, and although Oliver didn't know many of the words, he knew that the song was a melancholy one.

The girl's humming faded away, and before he knew it, she had turned and began to walk up the bank, away from Oliver. He stared after her, trying to figure out what had just happened. She halted after several paces, and twisted around to face him. "Aren't you coming?" She called. Oliver blinked, and ― probably against his better judgement ― followed her, broom still in hand. When Oliver caught up he realized that she had begun her humming again, the same melody as before. They headed off into the woods, the strange girl with flowers in her hair leading the way. She was winding effortlessly through the gnarled trees of the small forest, not even acknowledging how the harsh ground must be hurting her feet. This intrigued the young Scotsman, but he said nothing.

It took only a minute of walking and the girl's captivating humming before they were finally out of the forest. There was a glorious meadow that Oliver had surprisingly never seen before, filled with heather and other flowers that he didn't care to know the names of. His companion flashed a dazzling smile in his direction before taking his hand and leading him to a small clearing in the flowers that looked much like a crop circle.

The girl sat down and picked a closed flower bud from those around her, holding it in her palms. Oliver watched with wide chestnut eyes as the flower rose from her hand, blooming before his very eyes. It was an interesting colour; an extraordinarily light blue-purple that was almost white, with a deep yellow centre.

"It's called eyebright." The girl murmured before blowing gently on the flower, which flew over to Oliver with its petals acting like wings. He caught the flower-bird, bright eyes still widened in awe, and looked up at the girl.

"Eyebrigh'," He murmured, looking down at the flower again and feeling a slight smile creep up onto his lips. The sudden sound of a cowbell clanging roused both of them from their respective thoughts. The girl immediately bore a look of panic on her face, and she frantically unwound her flowery accessories from herself, and began to quickly braid her hair into one long plait with swift-moving fingers. Oliver frowned. "What's wrong?" He asked loud enough to be heard over the ring of the bell, genuinely concerned. The girl shook her head.

"I have to go," She said quietly, her amber-green eyes wide with distress. Oliver's eyebrows knitted more tightly together as she scrambled to her feet, discarding her crown of wildflowers. She raced out of the small nest, and took off before Oliver could even say goodbye.

Thoroughly confused, Oliver stood up. The girl had simply disappeared without a trace, save for the flower crafts that she had left with him. The flower-bird wilted slowly before falling to the ground, and Oliver was suddenly hit by a strange feeling, and he knew he had to get out of the meadow. With his broomstick clenched in his hand, Oliver tore off through the flowers and the forest, stumbling as he went, and quickly clambered onto his broomstick, flying the rest of the way home. He quietly stole away to his room, taking care to avoid being noticed by anyone in his family.

* * *

By the next week, Oliver Wood had forgotten all about the strange girl with wildflowers in her hair.


End file.
